


Becoming Whole

by the_random_writer



Series: Separated Twins [4]
Category: Bourne (Movies), RED (Movies), The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Advice, Brothers, CIA, Coffee, Crossover, Gen, Guilt, Insomnia, Squirrels, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:14:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6372517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A crossover where William Cooper from 'RED' and Kirill from 'The Bourne Supremacy' are identical twins.</p><p> Born in Berlin to an American mother and a Russian father, the twins were separated at the age of ten by their parents' divorce. William went to the United States with their mother, while Kirill went to the Soviet Union with their father.</p><p>Kirill has a heart-to-heart with his sister-in-law, and receives some useful advice.</p><p>Takes place in late April 2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Becoming Whole

Something rustled suddenly in the hedge at the side of the lawn. Kirill tensed, went for a gun that wasn't there, then cursed quietly and once again forced himself to relax. He was sitting on a wooden bench, in the back garden of his brother's house, in a pleasant suburb of Virginia. There were no SVR or FSB assassins here. Nobody was creeping through the foliage in the silent hour just before dawn to put a bullet in the back of his head. For the first time in twenty-two years, he was absolutely, totally safe.

The source of the rustling soon revealed itself to be nothing more threatening than a squirrel. Kirill narrowed his eyes at the twitchy intruder, suddenly wishing he had a weapon of some kind to hand. He could probably concuss the animal if he threw his mug at it, providing his aim was good. Given the way his right arm was behaving these days, that was by no means guaranteed. And he already knew he couldn't throw worth a damn with his left. Besides, throwing the mug would mean spilling the container's precious contents. There were a few things in this world he never wasted or threw away unless his life depended on it. Bullets were one, gourmet coffee was another.

The grey squirrels which lived in and around the massive garden didn't bother him at all, but their ongoing destruction of the roof above the new kitchen extension was slowly driving his sister-in-law insane. William had been waging a vicious war on the pesky, sciurine vandals for the last couple of months, with varying degrees of success. Regardless of what Virginia law did or did not allow (and thank God he wasn't dealing with any of the federally protected species), Michelle had explicitly banned the use of poison, bullets and explosives, for obvious safety reasons. She had two young children to consider, as well as the world's dumbest, friendliest, nosiest dog.

William's latest approach, based on the use of paracord and wire snares, was so far proving to be rather efficient. He was picking the little bastards off faster than they could breed replacements, and gradually winning the war of attrition. So far, the only downside of the campaign was that it sometimes turned the beautiful garden into the squirrel version of the Tyburn Tree. He or William now checked the area every morning, to remove the hanging, frozen, furry corpses before the kids or the dog found them. The last thing any of them needed was for Boomer to ruin Sunday dinner by presenting his beloved master with a well-intentioned but ill-timed 'gift'.

This particular squirrel, which Kirill recognized from its colour and the notch in its tail, seemed to be the leader of the enemy forces. William had named him Rambo, and vowed to make it his life's work to put the twitchy little bastard in an early, shallow, squirrel-shaped grave. Unfortunately, Rambo was a clever fellow, and that promise was so far proving to be hard to keep. While the enlisted ranks of the squirrel army had taken some very serious hits, the main man himself had developed a knack for avoiding all of the enemy's traps. But William Alexander Cooper—loving husband, attentive father and dedicated ex-marine—was nothing if not a patient and determined man. It was only a matter of time before Rambo encountered the Squirrel Reaper.

The kitchen door let out a creak, and this time, it was Rambo's turn to tense. He sat up on his hind legs, flicked his battle-damaged tail, chittered loudly, then disappeared back into the hedge. Kirill's lips twitched in amusement. If the new arrival was his brother, come to join him in his enjoyment of the dawn over a cup of morning mud, it was no wonder the tiny creature had fled. He had no idea how intelligent the animals were, but he was quite sure Rambo could somehow tell the two of them apart, and knew that while he was mostly harmless, William was definitely The Big Bad.

He turned to the house to tell his twin whose departure he had just missed. To his surprise, the new arrival wasn't his brother, but his sister-in-law, Michelle. It had only just gone six o'clock, but she was already perfectly coiffed and dressed, although the effect of her outfit was slightly ruined by the addition of an old fleece. One hand was curled around a steaming mug of coffee, probably poured from the pot he had recently brewed. His immediate reaction was irrational annoyance, that someone would dare to touch his precious joe. Then he calmly reminded himself that Michelle owned not only the beans, but also the brewer, the mugs, the kitchen, the house, the garden and the bench. And he could always make another batch.

Kirill sighed and resisted the urge to mentally batten down the hatches. He'd been living with the Coopers for just over two months, but still wasn't completely comfortable in the company of his brother's wife. Not that she'd said or done anything wrong, or given him an obvious reason to feel apprehensive in her presence. Quite the opposite, in fact. She'd shown him a degree of generosity and compassion he'd last experienced in his teens, and gone out of her way to help him settle into his new life. She'd even made him a batch of proper Russian borscht—an action that had moved him so much he hadn't had the heart to tell her he it was one of the few Russian foods he couldn't stand.

So it wasn't that he didn't like her, because he absolutely did. She was just so different from all of the women he'd known in his old life; so normal, so suburban, so quintessentially American and middle-class. She ran the PTA at her children's school, volunteered with the local church, hosted a book club every Thursday night (which seemed to involve a _lot_ of wine), and baked muffins with the kids on Saturday mornings. All perfectly acceptable activities, just not the kind of activities he was used to seeing a woman involved in, or knew the first bloody thing about. He found it hard to talk to her, especially when William wasn't around to act as the bridge, and to catch the errors in his English. He didn't want to say something that accidentally offended her or hurt her feelings, so sometimes the best approach was simply to say nothing at all.

But silence wasn't going to be an option this morning.

"Good morning," he said, briefly raising his mug in greeting. "I hope I did not wake you by making coffee. I have noticed it is not the quietest of machines."

"Good morning," she replied, flashing him a warm smile. "And don't worry. It wasn't you, or the machine. I have a meeting over in Baltimore this morning, and I want to be away early to beat the worst of the traffic." She sauntered over to the bench, paused to look around the tranquil garden, then carefully lowered herself onto the seat.

"Your meeting today, it is for the Beresford case you were talking about the other night?" he enquired politely, referring to the lawsuit she'd been asked to advise on as an independent special counsel. It was her first full case in almost five years—her route back into the legal game after taking time off to look after Andrew and Tatiana until they were both in school.

She nodded and smiled again, obviously pleased he'd remembered the name. "Yes, that's right. It's going to be the first time we'll have everyone from both sides around the table at the same time, so it could get a bit heated," she explained, then jokingly added, "maybe I should take you with me. You can stand in the corner and glare at anyone who steps out of line."

"I have seen the way you run your book club, Michelle," Kirill remarked. "You do not need me to persuade people to behave. You are perfectly capable of doing it yourself." And he wasn't saying that just to be nice. He'd seen her go into Command Mode on a few occasions, usually with the kids and their friends, and was quite sure she could give his old Spetsnaz combat instructor a damn good run for his money.

"Yes, there is that," she conceded. "Although, I don't think I'll be able to control this meeting by offering to open another bottle of Pinot Noir."

Kirill smiled. "It could not hurt to try."

He gestured towards the encroaching dawn; a scattering of pinks and reds slowly consuming the crisp, clear, starry sky. "It is going to be a beautiful day," he observed. "So at least you will have nice weather for the drive to Baltimore."

"Hmm, yes," she agreed, then wrinkled her nose in distaste. "Although it does mean I'll have the sun in my eyes all the way there."

He hadn't thought of that. "Cloudy might have been better today, then," he mused.

She shrugged her shoulders. It was what it was. Then she frowned intently and slowly exhaled, a sure-fire sign she was chewing on a topic much more serious than the weather.

"Kirill, I know this is probably none of my business, and I certainly don't mean to pry," she said, her tone polite but also concerned, "but I've noticed these early mornings of yours have become something of a habit. You're always up well before everyone else in the house, even though you usually don't go to bed until after midnight, and I was just wondering, is that normal for you? Or is something making it hard for you to get enough sleep?"

 _Bozhe moi_. Two extremely simple questions, but with such potentially complicated answers, he wasn't quite sure where to start. He could tell from the earnest look in her eyes that she was genuinely concerned about his emotional health. So maybe for once in his wretched, God-forsaken life, he should start with the honest truth. After everything she'd done for him over the last couple of months, she deserved at least that much in return. It was just that he'd never been a particularly honest person, especially about himself. And he would rather be strapped to a chair and water-boarded than talk to anyone about his feelings. But he was obviously going to have to learn some new habits to go with his new life.

He swallowed down the last of his coffee, then reached out to set his mug on the patio table.

"I have never been able to sleep for more than five or six hours a night," he explained, "even at the best of times."

And now was not the best of times, by any stretch of the imagination. New country, new climate, new home, new bed, new food, new clothes, new language, new people. No name, no job, no money, no friends, no guarantee of being allowed to remain in the United States. It was the uncertainty that bothered him the most. More than the fact he was legally dead, more than the pain from the still-healing injuries to his arm and leg. No physical wound could match the emotional anguish of being forcibly separated from his twin. He'd gone through it once, still had the mental scars, and absolutely wouldn't go through it again. If the Company decided it didn't want him and tried to send him back to Russia or to an American jail, he would load and fire the gun himself.

But he couldn't exactly say that to Michelle. For all that she was his sister-in-law, and one of the three people in the world he currently trusted with his life, it was just too painful and personal to share. And she already had more than enough on her plate as it was. She didn't need him piling his own problems on top of hers.

"Has that always been the case?" she asked, snapping him out of his gloomy thoughts.

"Yes, it has," he replied. He realized this was the perfect moment to share an amusing story about her spouse. "I remember when William and I were children, living in West Berlin, I used to wake very early in the morning, usually when the sun came up. I never left our bedroom or complained about feeling tired, so our parents never knew," he said, smiling at the memory of a much simpler and happier time. "Sometimes I would try to wake William, just to have some company, or so we could play a board game before we went to school. But he slept like the dead. I remember one morning, I could not wake him, no matter how hard I tried. I got so angry with him, I punched him in the balls as hard as I could."

Michelle let out a peal of laughter. "Did it work?" she asked, her brown eyes dancing in amusement.

Kirill grinned. "Not at all. He simply made this quiet grunting sound and rolled to the other side of the bed."

Michelle shook her head in amused disbelief. "He's not like that now, I can assure you. He's not a light sleeper by any means, but I'm pretty sure he wouldn't sleep through being punched in the family jewels."

"The Marines probably beat it out of him," Kirill advised. "When you are out in the field on active duty, with the risk of being attacked at any time, you learn not to sleep like the dead unless you actually wish to join them."

"He did mention that once, yes," Michelle replied. "He told me that serving in the Marines teaches you to fall asleep like you're switching off and wake up like you're switching on."

That description was as good as any he'd ever heard. "It was the same for me when I was in the Army," he told her. "Sleep quick, sleep light or sleep forever."

He sighed quietly, and summoned the courage to push on. "But I would be a liar if I said that was the only explanation for my early mornings," he continued. "I am also very troubled by personal matters. Matters that make it hard for me to fall and stay asleep. I find myself dwelling on the past a great deal. And worrying about the future a great deal. Far more than I ever used to."

Michelle nodded, her expression full of sympathy and understanding. "That's hardly surprising, Kirill, when you think about what you're going through," she said. "Right now, you're stuck in legal and financial limbo. You can't go back to your old life in Russia, so you're thinking about everything you've lost, and everything you've done that you no longer have the chance to undo. And you don't know what your new life looks like yet, so you're worried it's going to be something bad, or something you don't want. It's natural to dwell on the past, and to worry about the future," she acknowledged with a supportive smile. "The trick is to keep it at a productive level, and to never allow it to consume you. Think about the past only to learn from your mistakes, and think about the future only to be prepared, and to have a sense of purpose and direction. Anything more is a waste of time."

He blew out another sigh, then leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "This is very good advice, Michelle. And advice I should not even need, because this is exactly how I used to live," he explained. "The kind of work I did in Moscow, you learned very quickly to live in the moment. You worried about today, today. And you worried about tomorrow, tomorrow. You gave no thought to what had already passed or what was still to come. I used to be very good at it. But I find it does not come to me so easily now. Now, I seem to worry about everything, especially the past," he confessed, in a voice so quiet it was almost a whisper. "You say I should think about it only to learn from my mistakes, but then I realize exactly how many mistakes I have made. It is... unpleasant."

She nodded again, but said nothing. What could she say, really, in response to that particular confession? She didn't know the full details of what he'd done for a living in Russia, but she knew he'd had a similar career to her spouse, so she must at least suspect he was highly trained in 'special' skills and capable of killing at the drop of a hat. Which made her willingness to open up her house to him and allow him into her children's lives all the more remarkable. It was a very humbling sensation, and Kirill wasn't used to being humble, any more than he was used to being honest, or talking about his emotions and feelings.

He sat up straight and took a deep breath. There was something else he wanted to say to Michelle, and given what they were talking about, this was as good a time as any to say it.

"Michelle, I know having me here has not been easy for you and William," he quietly admitted. "I know I have disrupted your home and your marriage, and that you have not been able to spend as much time with your family and friends as you usually do. I know William has used some of his vacation days to take me to my hospital appointments. I know you have paid some of my medical bills out of your own pockets. I know you have had to lie to people about what I used to do in Russia and how I came to be in the United States. Thank you," he said solemnly, "from the bottom of my heart. If there is anything I can do to help you or William in return, anything at all, please, let me know."

Michelle smiled and swirled her coffee around in her cup. "Did William ever tell you he proposed to me on our seventh date?" she asked.

Kirill shook his head, slightly perturbed by the sudden and drastic change of topic. "No, he did not."

"He'd left the marines three years before and was in the final year of his bachelor's degree," she recalled. "I remember at the time being so surprised, not that he'd proposed, because I already knew he would be the one, but that he'd proposed so soon. Because it's supposed to be women who want to get married, and men who have to be dragged up the aisle against their will."

Kirill snorted. He'd never been in a relationship serious enough to reach that stage, but he understood the point she was making. He knew plenty of men who'd proposed to their other halves, then done nothing but complain at length about their impending loss of bachelor freedom. Their attitude had always confused and annoyed him. It wasn't as if marriage was something they _had_ to do. If it was such a terrible prospect, why not simply stay single instead?

"It was a couple of months after nine-eleven, so I assumed it was because of the attacks," Michelle went on. "I thought maybe he was having a "life's too short" moment, that he'd woken up one morning and decided he should get on with the things he really wanted to do, before something really terrible happened and he no longer had the chance."

She finished her coffee, grimacing slightly as she swallowed the dregs, then leaned forward to carefully set her mug on the ground.

"I said yes, obviously, but then we decided to wait until he'd finished school before we actually tied the knot. And I realized during the time we were engaged that there was an awful lot more to it than that. That it was also because of what had happened with his family. Think about it. He lost you and his father when he was ten, his mother when he was eighteen, his grandfather when he was twenty-two and his grandmother when he was twenty-four. By the time I met him, he really had no family left, except for his aunt in San Diego, and he's never been very close to her. I think William had simply decided that even if he couldn't bring his own family back, he could at least make a whole new one with me, to replace some of what he'd lost."

"Yes, I can see how that would happen," Kirill said, ignoring the churning sensation in his guts. He'd experienced a similar feeling of loss and isolation himself after his father's death, but for reasons he didn't yet have the courage or desire to face, he'd opted for a much darker, crueller and more violent solution.

"Working for the CIA can be very hard on family life," Michelle revealed. "Especially in the first few years, when agents are expected to take assignments abroad. A lot of the men William works with are chronically single, or divorced and paying alimony for kids they never see and barely know. The hours are hard, and most of them are workaholics, which obviously doesn't help. William loves what he does, but in the eight years he's been with the agency now, he's always been there for me and the kids. He's always taken care of us, and he's always come home. He loves his country, and he wants to serve however he can, but his family is what _really_ matters."

She paused for a moment, taking the time to figure out how to put her next thoughts into words.

"Kirill, you're part of that now, for better or worse. You've only been here for a couple of months, but I can already see that having you back in his life has changed him. And definitely for the better. He's softened a bit around the edges. He's not as rigid and contained as he used to be. He broods less and smiles more. I'm his wife and the mother of his children. I know him better than anyone else in the world. But you're his identical twin. At the most basic level, you're literally him. I forget that even though I've been with him for almost ten years, you were with him before he was even born. When I watch the two of you, the way you interact with each other, your body language and your gestures, the way you switch between English, German and Russian without even thinking, I honestly can't believe you've been separated for almost thirty years. He once told me you were like a missing limb, and I finally understand what he meant when he said that. Having you back has made him whole again, in a way he hasn't been for a very long time."

She leaned in slightly, narrowing the distance between them. He resisted the urge to move away, or to stand up and run for the hills.

"And I think he makes you whole as well, Kirill, in a way _you_ haven't been for a very long time either," she quietly concluded. "He needs you, but you need him, just as much. Probably even more. Because without you, William at least has me and the kids. Without him, you have nothing. And I'm not trying to be cruel when I say that. You know it's true. So whatever conditions you need to meet to be allowed to stay in the United States? Whatever work you need to do for the CIA? You're damn well going to meet them, and you're damn well going to do it. You hear me? Don't end up in a situation where they decide to give you to the German government. For William's sake, as well as your own. He's already mourned for you once. Don't you _dare_ make him mourn for you again."

Kirill's heartbeat hammered inside his skull and echoed loudly in his ears. William had shown him the letter he'd received from a Moscow investigation service back in 2002, advising him his brother was dead. It was why there had never been any contact attempt from this end. William had gone looking for him and found a grave. Kirill was ashamed of the fact he didn't have such a good excuse. He hadn't even gone looking for his brother, because he'd honestly believed it was better to leave the past alone.

How very, very wrong he had been.

But Michelle wasn't finished with him yet. "You asked me if there's anything you can do to help, and that's my honest response," she told him. "I don't need you to pay rent or buy groceries or walk the dog or clean the house. Although, if you want to clean the house, go right ahead. The only thing I need you to do is not screw this opportunity up. You understand?"

He looked her straight in the eye and gave her a confident nod, not quite sure he could find his voice in the face of such strength and determination. He understood now why it had taken a former marine to finally persuade her into marriage, after two previous suitors had crashed and burned. No ordinary man would have stood a chance.

The kitchen door squeaked open again, bringing their conversation to a close.

This time, it was indeed William, wearing an old set of Marine Corps sweats, barefoot, his hair askew, squinting angrily at the dawn, obviously not amused to be out of bed while it was technically still night. He didn't sleep like the dead now, but unlike his wife and his younger brother, he wasn't much of a morning person. It normally took him thirty minutes and the best part of two cups of coffee before he could do anything more than point and grunt.

"Who organized the coffee morning and forgot to invite the coffee maker?" he demanded to know, holding up the stainless steel pot, which obviously contained a second brew.

He picked his way across to the bench, cursing quietly as he stood on a tiny piece of abandoned Lego. He leaned over to give his wife a kiss, then raised both his eyebrows and the pot, silently offering to refill their mugs. Michelle shook her head to refuse, probably thinking about the drive ahead, but Kirill collected his mug from the table, held it out and gratefully accepted a second dose.

"So, what have you two early birds been talking about?" William asked as he sat down on the end of the bench, shivering slightly in the cold.

"Oh, nothing important," was Michelle's innocent and breezy reply. "Just sharing some thoughts about the surprise party for your birthday."

Kirill's mug froze halfway to his mouth. _Chert voz'mi_. He'd completely forgotten their birthday was coming up at the end of next month. Not that anyone could really blame him, given how occupied he'd been of late with slightly more important concerns. But now he had another problem to worry about, namely, what kind of birthday gift to buy for his identical twin—an identical twin he still knew distressingly little about. He made a mental note to discuss it with Michelle in private later. She of all people would surely know what kind of present her husband might want or need.

William grunted in disgust. "You know I hate surprise parties," he complained, leaning out to place the coffee pot on the table.

"Yes, honey," Michelle replied. "Which is why I'm telling you about it now. So you have plenty of time to practice being surprised."

"And I hate surprise birthday parties even more," William added.

"But that's because you hate your birthday," Michelle said in a very matter-of-fact tone.

"Well, what's to like about it?" William griped. "It just means I'm another year older, and another year closer to death."

Kirill shrugged. He couldn't argue with his brother there. Death was waiting for them all, with or without the nasty, big, pointy teeth.

"William Alexander Cooper, I know perfectly well why you hate your birthday so much, and it has nothing to do with being closer to death," Michelle said tartly. "If that really bothered you, you wouldn't have joined the Marines, and you wouldn't have taken a job with the CIA."

William huffed quietly and narrowed his eyes at his spouse, shooting her a mock angry glare. "Smartass," he murmured.

Kirill watched some birds on the fence and pretended not to hear the touching exchange between husband and wife. Michelle's comments needed no clarification. He'd always hated his birthday just as much as his older brother, probably for much the same reason. Because until this year, it had simply reminded him of the one person who should have been there to celebrate the occasion with him.

But this year promised to be different. Fate had brought them back together, and he was no longer officially dead and gone. He was alive and relatively well, and living in the guest suite in the basement, trying to figure out how to decode the cable box so he could watch the Russian Premier League for free. Although, given the heartfelt nature of Michelle's request, perhaps he should abandon that particular task. It would be just his luck if the CIA decided to wash its hands of him, not because he wasn't worth the trouble and risk, but because they'd caught him violating the DMCA.

"Mike, you do realize that if it's my birthday, then it's also Kirill's birthday as well?" William said.

"Yes, dear. I may not have your hands-on experience, but I do understand the basics of what it means to be an identical twin."

William leaned all the way back on the bench to look at his brother behind his wife. "Do you like surprise birthday parties, Kir?" he asked.

"Not really, no," Kirill replied. He didn't like surprise _anything_ , parties included.

"Does that mean liking surprises is a nature thing, then? Not a nurture thing?" William wondered out loud.

Kirill shrugged. He had no idea. He was a retired assassin, not an expert in behavioural genetics.

Then he snickered, remembering an amusing moment from his previous life. "The last time I went to a surprise party, they wheeled in a huge cake, and as soon as we had finished singing 'Happy Birthday', a woman dressed as a sexy cop jumped out of the middle of it. She startled me so badly that I almost shot her. She was supposed to do a striptease for the birthday boy, but she was so upset that someone had pointed a gun at her, she locked herself in the women's bathroom and refused to come out until we promised to double her fee."

Michelle tutted and rolled her eyes, obviously not impressed.

William leaned towards his wife. "You can throw me a surprise birthday party with a stripper in a cake if you want," he told her. "I'd be absolutely fine with that."

"So would I," Kirill chimed in from the other end of the bench. "As long as she is a redhead."

"Not a chance," William said, vigorously shaking his head. "If she's not a brunette, don't even invite me."

"What about both?" was Kirill's diplomatic suggestion. "In a very large cake?"

"Both is good."

"A sexy cop and a sexy nurse, yes?"

"That could work. But I call dibs on the nurse."

"You _are_ sixteen minutes older than me, and it _would_ take place in your home, so it seems only fair to give you the choice," Kirill conceded. And he would rather have the sexy cop—the handcuffs got him every time.

Michelle looked from left to right, from one brother to the other. "You two do realize I'm sitting right here, don't you?" she asked incredulously. "And that I can hear every word you're saying? You're not talking about this through some kind of silent twin communication thing."

William's shoulders slumped. "No strippers in a cake, then?" he asked glumly.

"No, William, no strippers in a cake," she repeated. "You're a happily married man with two very impressionable young children. And I want to invite Father O'Neill."

William wasn't ready to surrender yet. "Father O'Neill grew up in one of the roughest parts of Boston," he quietly pointed out. "He's probably seen a _lot_ worse than a pair of strippers in a cake."

Michelle blew out an impatient sigh—the sigh of a weary mother dealing with a particularly obdurate child. "Will, the only stripping you'll ever see in this house is when the workmen come to rip out the contents of the ensuite."

William's groan made Kirill grin. This was obviously going to be Michelle's next home improvement project. She'd only just finished gutting and rebuilding the kitchen, and now she wanted to do the same to what he and William both thought was a perfectly pleasant master bath. Unfortunately, she was paying for the work herself, with money drawn from her family trust, so William would have almost no say in the proceedings, except perhaps to tell her which colour scheme he liked the most.

"Don't understand why you need to pay someone to demolish our bathroom for us," William grumbled into his mug. "Pretty sure I could do the work just fine for free."

"It's because your idea of demolishing something is to throw in a hand grenade and pull the door shut," Michelle shot back, the corners of her mouth twitching.

Kirill snorted into his coffee, causing some of the bitter liquid to splash up across his cheeks. That would be his answer to the problem as well. Great minds obviously thought alike.

Michelle cast a glance at her watch and pushed herself up from the bench, cursing creatively under her breath. "Damn it," she muttered. "I was supposed to be away ten minutes ago. I'll have to catch up with you boys later. Need to get moving if I want to beat the rolling roadblock on the four ninety-five."

She leaned in to give her husband a kiss on the cheek, but paused at the sound of scrabbling claws. All three of them turned in unison to find the source of the interruption. And there was Rambo, sitting as bold as proverbial brass up on the kitchen roof, tearing viciously at the seam of the newly repaired cedar tiles. William swore, shot to his feet, and mirroring Kirill's earlier thoughts, threw his mug at the furry intruder. His aim was good, or at least it would have been, had Rambo remained in place long enough for the weaponized coffee to land. Unfortunately, the vandal chose to depart the scene while the mug was still arcing gracefully through the air. The container landed on the roof with a clunk, splattering liquid in every direction. Miraculously, it didn't break. _Must be a CIA mug_ , Kirill concluded.

Rambo scampered down from the roof, stopped on the post at the end of the fence to squawk at his human foes, then turned and vanished back into the trees.

"Viko, I do not speak squirrel," Kirill advised in a serious tone, "but I am quite sure Rambo just called you a total loser and told you to go fuck yourself."

Michelle gave him an angry scowl. "Kirill, you remember what we were talking about just before William joined us? What I asked you to do?" she said.

"Yes?" he tentatively replied, ignoring the curious look that flashed across his brother's face.

"I'd like to add one more thing to the list, if you don't mind. I also want you to kill that goddamn _fucking_ squirrel before he destroys my beautiful house," she ground out through gritted teeth. "Do you think you could do that for me? Without blowing a massive hole in the garden, killing the dog or burning the whole neighbourhood down?"

Kirill blinked like a lizard, shocked by the vehemence in her tone, then gave her an obedient nod.

"Great," she said, patting him cheerfully on the arm. "And why don't we have that done before the birthday party? If I'm making food for a barbecue lunch, I don't want it covered in squirrel shit before we have the chance to eat."

She pushed up on to the tips of her toes, gave her husband a peck on the cheek, then disappeared back into the house.

A few minutes later, they heard her car pull out of the garage and carefully drive away.

Kirill drew his brows together and took another sip of his coffee, savouring the pungent taste. He wasn't sure what kind of trap he could set for the beast that William hadn't already tried, but his days weren't exactly packed, so thinking about it in more depth would at least give him something to do.

Out of the blue, inspiration suddenly struck.

He turned to his twin and said, "Viko, perhaps we are looking at the Rambo problem through the wrong end of the scope."

"What do you mean?" William asked, mirroring his brother's frown.

"Until now, we have been playing this as a purely defensive game," Kirill pointed out. "Setting snares in and around the garden, and waiting for Rambo to set one of them off."

William nodded, seeing where his sibling was going. "You think we should start playing this as an offensive game instead."

"Turn the tables on our furry intruder," Kirill continued, grinning softly. "Follow the little asshole back to his nest and eliminate him while he sleeps."

"I actually thought about that a few weeks ago," William revealed, "but it's against the law to destroy the nest or harm any babies."

Kirill tried not to roll his eyes. William and his beloved rules. "But if we avoid breaking those two laws, then Rambo himself is fair game, yes?" he asked.

William shrugged. "I guess so. Might need to check with the local wildlife department, though, just to be sure."

Kirill stared off into the trees, wondering where Rambo had gone. "It was just an idea," he murmured.

"And not a bad one," William acknowledged. "I mean, you'd think between the two of us, with all of our various skills, we'd be able to hunt down and kill one stupid squirrel."

Kirill smirked as a ridiculous image suddenly popped into his head, of the two of them, dressed from head to toe in woodland camo, their faces covered in polish and paint, armed to the teeth with an assortment of knives and guns, swinging wildly from tree to tree in an epic quest to slaughter a creature the size of a shoe.

"And if we cannot? What do we do then?" he asked. "I don't know about you, but I don't want to have to tell Michelle that we were unable to complete her request."

"There are some people I can call who might be able to help," William said. "Retired people. _Bored_ retired people."

Kirill gave a scornful snort. "Viko, if the two of us cannot track down and kill a single squirrel, even one as cunning as Rambo, I doubt very much a pensioner could do any better."

"Kir, if you want to live long enough to fully enjoy your own retirement, do not _ever_ call Frank Moses a pensioner," William warned with a grin. "At least not to his face."

Retirement. Now wasn't _that_ an interesting thought? He'd always assumed he would end his career in the same manner as their father—being taken down to a room with a drain in the basement of the Lubyanka to have a bullet put in his head. Could he actually now imagine a happier and more peaceful conclusion to his professional life? One that involved nothing more taxing than sitting out on the front porch with a good book and a cold beer? Unfortunately, as with so many of his current problems, the answer to that particular question was up to the CIA. It first had to decide to keep him, and to then give him something to retire _from_.

But as Michelle had so adroitly explained, he should worry about tomorrow only to be prepared, and to have a sense of purpose and direction. Anything more was a waste of his time. It was excellent and useful advice, as all of her advice to him so far had been. Perhaps he should break another of his former habits and actually attempt to take it.

The corners of his mouth tucked up as he returned to an earlier thought. "Viko, I am coming to the conclusion that your wife is an extremely unusual woman," he said as solemnly as he could. "I don't know if I should be envious of you, or offer you my commiserations."

William heaved a weary sigh. "Kir, I love my wife very much, but you _honestly_ have no idea."

Kirill nodded in sympathy, then flashed his brother a teasing grin. "I don't suppose she has a younger sister?"


End file.
